


The More Loving One

by SandyQuinn



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Billford - Freeform, Fish Puns, M/M, Manipulation, Tragedy, implied one-sided stanford pines/fiddleford mcgucket, mermaid au, some jokes!, strange horror/fantasy elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-24 10:01:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6149951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandyQuinn/pseuds/SandyQuinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lonely Stanford Pines finds a friend who lives in the lake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The More Loving One

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by some awesome art+thoughts from humlors in tumblr.

The first winter after the house is finished, Stanford wades through the snow with the cold air prickling against his skin, invading his nose and his throat, and keeps his eyes fixed on the shapes moving in the edges of his vision. There are so many things to chart in Gravity Falls that he’s lost count, his notes and sketchbooks filled to the brim, and yet he feels like he’s barely scraped the surface. The thought fills him with a sort of desperate yearning.

He tries not to think about how it’s almost Christmas and he hasn’t called home yet.

He comes out of the woods, and to a nameless lake about a mile from the town centre, the smooth, snow-covered surface spreading out before his eyes, empty and alien, like a hole to another dimension: and he steps on the ice, his pulse picking up because the sea in New Jersey had never frozen.

Against every pre-conceived notion Stanford has about ice, it holds, and he walks. The eerie silence of the winter makes the snow crunch loudly under his boots. Stanford takes a deep breath, and then another, and berates himself silently for getting so worked up that he can hear his heart humming in his ears.

Or something humming, in any case. What’s he so nervous about, anyway?

Sometimes he feels like he’s in a dream, a continuous stream of non-reality that only exists for him, only his own thoughts to keep him company.

He clears his throat, startling himself with the stupid, hoarse sound he makes involuntarily, and looks around, feeling his face heat up at what he’s about to do.

“Hello,” he speaks out loud, his breath ghosting around him. There’s nobody around, or so it seems, but he feels like something is listening, like the valley itself turns towards him. He feels like he’s doing something he’s supposed to be doing. He raises his voice a little. “Hello!”

 _Hello_ , the echo of the frozen lake answers.

“My,” Stanford swallows, and then tries again. “My name is Stanford Pines.” He pauses, staring into the woods, where the shadows move in ways that have nothing to do with the wind and the sun, and he adds, painfully earnestly. “Maybe we can be friends.”

 _Stanford Pines_ , the echoes say.

 _Friends_ , they say.

It’s the only response he gets. He feels a brief flash of hope, anyway, before the nervous apprehension of his uncharted future.

Stanford stands on top of the frozen lake for a moment and takes deep breaths, gulping in the painfully cold air, and keeps his eyes fixed on the dimming sky above him. The stars are starting to spread above him, distant but comforting, and Stanford wants, has this unknown urge, to lie down on the snow and let himself sink into the sky. He imagines the sudden tug in his stomach as the gravity shifts, so well that it makes his head spin, and for a brief moment, he feels like he might disappear.

He doesn’t.

He goes back to the house, and he calls his parents, like he should have three days ago, and pa doesn’t say much when Stanford says he’s not going to make the trip home. Ma is disappointed but she understands, Ford’s busy with his important research and the trip is long and expensive, and her echoing voice in the receiver loosens some of the guilty knot in Stanford’s chest. She talks about the new neighbours and the freezer that keeps making funny sounds. Stanford feels responsible when he tells her not to poke around in it with anything sharp. He curls on the couch, holds the receiver against his ear until it starts getting unpleasantly sweaty, and listens to her monologue.

It’s not until much later, when he’s half-asleep, that a thought drifts uninvited into his mind: something he remembers reading from somewhere. Something about giving out true names.

He makes a mental note to check on it in the morning and burrows under his blanket.

He’s forgotten it by the time he wakes up. 

*

By the time the spring comes, every single pair of shoes Stanford owns seems to be in a perpetual state of wetness, he’s had the flu thrice, and he’s spoken to the people in the town about seven times. Only one interaction had lasted longer than five minutes.

Somehow, it had been easier in college, when he’d felt that for the purposes of studying, distancing himself had been the _appropriate_ choice. Despite Stanford’s single-minded determination, he’d never been _alone_ , with Fiddleford sharing his dorm and his enthusiasm, his professors holding him after the lectures, sometimes for hours to talk about his research and his classmates at least throwing out friendly greetings, despite Stanford’s persistent avoidance of anything even remotely recreational.

Stanford had isolated himself happily in the busy hubbub of student life and he’d _honestly_ thought that he’d be perfectly prepared to live alone in a cabin without seeing another human being for months on end.

Stanford had never thought there’d be such a thing as thinking _too much_.

“Good morning, dinosaur skull,” he murmurs, yawning as he shuffles across the room in his socks, the inanimate objects somehow comforting in their continued existence. “Good morning, skeleton model. Good morning, Jeff.”

“Bite me!” Jeff the gnome calls out from his cage. Stanford resolves not to give him any breakfast.

He would have let the little creature free days ago, after the unfruitful interview they’d had, if Jeff hadn’t immediately exhibited some serious criminal tendencies by attempting to take his lab rats as hostages. As it is now, Stanford’s only solution seemed to be a controlled release far enough from the house that Jeff wouldn’t be able to come back and paint rude words on his walls.

Stanford shivers and sips his luke-warm coffee, peering out of the window. Everything looks damp and dull, like the world in some awkward in-between state, and what he’s most likely looking at is another unpleasant day gone by too fast, where he starts writing and finishes his first sentence by five PM, where he gives in and turns on the TV and tries not to think.

Initially, Stanford had imagined his foray into the world of supernatural would have somehow been _more_ , a solid series of adventures and discoveries: he’d thought – he’d seen himself carving a whole new life for himself, a whole new Stanford Pines, but the winter had been dark and quiet, diminishing his enthusiasm with every day that had gone by without a new discovery. It had snuck up on him, like Jeff with a butter knife, dull and disheartening.

He stands by the window for a long time, as Jeff grumbles inaudibly somewhere behind him, and thinks about what he’s going to do next. There are notes to add into his journals, there is good, solid proof-reading, letters to answer: boring, productive tasks. There is all that, certainly.

Suddenly something in his chest clenches unpleasantly, like a fist closing around it, tugging, pulling. It’s not just Jeff picking away on his self-esteem: Stanford feels that something in him might _break_ if he doesn’t do something. He needs to get away.

While a part of him still wonders what’s in store for _Dynasty_ today, he moves in a dreamy slow-motion, leaves his half-empty mug on top of Jeff’s cage and goes to put on his clothes.

“Comb your hair, you hippie!” Jeff yells from the cage, futilely, as the door slams.

*

Stanford stomps through the melting forest, his shoes making unpleasant squelching sounds, feeling like he’s getting a little drunk on the scent of fresh, wet ground, and he feels more awake than he’s been in _days_. He wonders if there’s some magic in there, in the tangible sensation of seasons shifting, in this transitional stage, because he wants to laugh out loud, wandering carelessly along the beaten path. He feels like he’s changed worlds from one dusty and dark and heavy to one that’s suddenly living, cold and wet and vibrant. It seems so _stupid_ now, that all he’d really needed all along had been some fresh air.

He feels like a little kid again, and maybe that’s why Stanley comes into his mind unbidden, walking alongside him, and it hurts, of course it does, like a dull, familiar ache: but Stanford’s been by himself so long that his mind supplies the imaginary conversation without his consent.

“Where are we going, Sixer?” Stanley asks, and he’s twelve and simple and surprisingly easy to remember, and Stanford slows down a little, his stance shifting automatically to accommodate Stanley’s flailing and enthusiastic elbows, like he used to.

“There’s this lake,” Stanford says, without thinking.

“A lake?” Stanley makes a face. “What’re we gonna do by the _lake_?”

Stanford doesn’t know what he’s going to do by the lake. “Lots of things,” he says, stubbornly. “We can check out the algae –“

“Yeesh,” Stanley says. “Can’t we just check ma’s toes for that?”

“Shoot, I forgot to call her again,” Stanford mutters, the day-dream broken with a sudden stab of reality. He forgets, every week. There’s less guilt now, and he feels guilty about that, but not enough.

He wonders if Stanley ever calls her. He tries to think about Stanley again, walking with him, but the little boy is gone: and anyway, he’s reached the lake.

The ice has melted away, and there are people, further away, fixing up the boats. He takes off in a different direction, going along the edge of the lake, his feet sinking into the wet sand. He knows he has no excuse for avoiding them – he knows this just makes things harder, in the long run, inches him further and further away from confidence, but he just can’t bring himself to walk up there. There is an invisible force inside his head, something that makes him too aware of himself. He feels too _weird_ for these people.

Some of his good mood dissipates, and he stops at an empty shore, as lonely and hollow as he feels.

Stanford stares out into the lake, shivering in the cool spring morning, and watches the surface of the water ripple.

 _Fish_ , he thinks, digging into his pocket for a tissue.

An enormous tendril breaks into the surface, only for a couple of seconds, splashing like a joyful child, before it’s gone again.

Stanford drops his tissue into the shallow water.

Next minute, he’s running towards the nearest pier, out of breath before he even gets there, nearly slipping on the wet wood as he looks around, desperately.

“Boat –“ he pants, “boat, why aren’t there any _boats_ around here –“

The pier is empty, and Stanford’s chest swells with desperation as he stares out into the lake so hard his head hurts, trying to spot the tentacle again, filled to the brim with urgency. “Oh come _on_ –“

“Oh, quit yer belly-aching, that show-off will waggle his tentacles to _any_ chump passing by.”

Stanford nearly swallows his own tongue.

As he looks around wildly, he sees no one, absolutely no one on the small and vaguely askew pier, and no one in the surrounding water either.

He didn’t think that, he thinks. He didn’t. He couldn’t have. Generally he knows when he’s thinking thoughts in his own head. Somewhere in the back of his mind a panicky version of himself who’d gone to those Psychology 101 lectures rears their head and he squishes it down, desperately, just as he hears a splash of water directly underneath him.

Stanford looks down, and then crouches down, very carefully, feeling the wet planks under his palms as he leans in to peer between the cracks.

All he sees is dark, murky water, made darker underneath the shadow of the pier: and he squints, his attention caught by the tiny fish swarming close to the surface. It’s like some kind of a trick image, the kind with complex patterns that suddenly reveal something right under your nose: through the cloudy water, Stanford sees something yellow and glowing, like a glint of gold at the bottom of the lake.

He grips the wood under his fingers until his knuckles turn white, and his breath catches in his throat, when he realizes, that while he’s staring into the water, _something is staring back at him_.

He watches: a face slowly surfaces, smooth and strangely featureless, along with tangling, dark wet hair, spreading, like seaweed, strange unblinking eyes fixed on Stanford with such intense scrutiny that when his chest starts hurting, he realizes it’s because he’s holding his breath.

The creature slowly breaks into a grin, with a mouth wider than anything he’s ever seen, not right, not safe: that sends shivers down his spine. He’s struck speechless, waiting, _waiting_ like an idiot in trance, as the being under the pier opens their mouth to speak, as they stare each other through the laughably narrow crack between the planks. 

“Hiya!” the creature pipes up. They also spill a considerable amount of water down their chin.

It’s a little anti-climactic, but it works – Stanford leans back, sitting onto the damp pier, and huffs out a laugh.

“Hello,” he says, peering down again hastily, in case the merperson disappears. “Did you – did you talk to me just now? Was that you?”

“Sure was!” And there’s a brief splash, before the creature surfaces again, this time in the water next to Stanford. “Oh, don’t _tell me_ – ya heard my _voice_ –“

“Right, yes-“

 “And now my siren-ine wiles have got yer head all spinning! Don’t _worry_ , it goes away! Probably. Ya might end up hankering for fish a lot.” The creature closes one their eyes meaningfully. “Wink!” 

“What – “ Stanford’s head is spinning, but he’s fairly sure it’s not because he’s been hypnotized. His face sort of hurts. He realizes, blearily, that it’s because he’s grinning. “No, _actually_ you nearly gave me a heart attack. Are you – some kind of a merman? Or – what did you say – a siren?”

“I’m Bill Cipher!” the creature says, grabbing the edge of the pier to haul their elbows onto it. “What, you ask every chump you bump into whether they’re human or not? C’mon, put it there!”

Stanford, still trying to come into terms with this all, is suddenly presented with a strange webbed hand, but he’s spent too many months holed away in his cabin to take it, to even remember what it’s there for. He blinks at Bill owlishly, trying to sort out the million thoughts running through his mind. What did he want to do again?

“Wait!” he says, even though Bill isn’t going anywhere, panicked excitement spiking up in his chest. Bill blinks, lowering his hand slowly, an expression of disappointment flashing through his features that goes unnoticed in Stanford’s hurry. “Hold on – I’m sorry, would it be all right if I drew you? And asked a few questions? Do you breathe both underwater and on the surface? Can I see your gills, I, I – “

He didn’t have his journal! _Why_ didn’t he take his journal with him? He was stupid, thoughtless _fool_ , rendered into a simpleton from the weeks of dust gathered in his house, soap-operas and Jeff’s insensitive commentary on his nose –

“Wow! One thing at a time, buddy!” Bill interrupts as if he can read minds and shifts: a large, black fishtail breaks the surface of the water briefly, catching the sunlight, the reflection glinting golden like stars in space, and Stanford blinks, struck momentarily mute in his awe.

“I’m sorry,” he swallows, meekly. “It’s just that, I’m doing this research, collecting information about supernatural beings in Gravity Falls, and to be quite frank, it hasn’t been –“

“Lookie here, Stanford Pines,” Bill drawls, interrupting him. “Y’see, ya can’t just burst into my lake and start demanding things, you catch my _drift_? What ya do need to do is make me an offer. A lil _quid pro quo_ , so to speak.”

“An offer – what kind of an offer?” Stanford asks carefully, and then thinks further than that, and suddenly realizes something. “Wait – _how_ did you know my name?”

Bill tilts his head back, and laughs. “Nothing _fishy_ there, pal! I just happen to know lots of things! In fact, I know yer not doing so well, with that research of yours – been a bit of a _dry_ season for ya, if I’ve understood correctly.” He pauses, thinks for a moment, and then adds, his eyes glowing with mirth. “Maybe I can _reel_ ya in with a little proposition.”

Stanford is conflicted. On the other hand, there is a supernatural being with some kind of a deal, which, according to everything Stanford’s read, is a dangerous thing.

On the other hand, Bill is clearly going into a lot of trouble thinking up fish-related puns.

“All right,” he says carefully, and takes a seat, the dampness slowly seeping through his trousers. “What are you proposing?”

Bill shifts, leaning against the edge of the pier, his hair and his skin slowly drying in the chilly spring weather – far more humanoid than majority of the creatures Stanford has encountered so far. Somehow it’s both comforting, and deeply unsettling at the same time. He gets the impression that Bill is clever: perhaps almost as smart as he is.

“You strike me as a particularly _clever_ human,” Bill drawls. “That’s why, _that’s why_ I talked to ya – I usually _never_ bother, unless you throw a ham sandwich into the lake or something. But you – oh boy. I’ve heard about you. I’ve watched you!” And he shifts closer, his scales scraping against the wood, a dry sound, like a whisper, their eyes locked, and Stanford stays still like a man before a wild animal, waiting.

“I’ve _watched_ you,” Bill repeats lowly. “And today, you came to the lake, and I figured – hey, why not throw _you_ a ham sandwich. Why not give _you_ \- a lil guidance? You see where I’m going here.”

“You said you wanted something in return,” Stanford reminds, his voice a little hoarse, his thoughts distant. Bill grins at him, angelically.

“I do,” Bill says. “I mean, fair’s fair, right? And wouldn’t an itsy, bitsy favour to me be… _fair_?”

“I guess so,” Stanford says, uncertainly.

“And wouldn’t ya like to make us both happy?”

Stanford hesitates. “Well –“ 

“Then,” Bill continues, sweetly, lowly. “Would it _inconvenience_ ya to do me that favour, for all the things I can give to ya? One thing! I know what you need, Stanford Pines, your pay-off, your break-through! Imagine their faces, all of ‘em – are you doing it?  – when ya come in and turn their world upside down! I wouldn’t mind helping ya out with it - if you let me!”

Stanford thinks about the disappearing gravity, and his plans, the stupid house he built and the grant money they gave him and the crumbs of information in his journals, and something desperate clenches in his chest. He’s not stupid, oh no – he knows there’s a likelihood that Bill is going to ask something despicable of him in return. And still, _still_ he hesitates, staring into Bill’s eyes: eyes that seem to reflect some haggard, pale image of himself, because he wants, he _wants_ so _much_. The need feels like nervous tension, shuddering through him.

“What would the favour be?” he asks bluntly.

Bill grins at him. “The little favour, for my big one? Is that what yer asking me?”

“Yes!”

“Does it _matter_?” Bill asks slyly.

Stanford pulls himself up to his feet, his heart pounding in his chest. “I won’t be _tricked,_ Bill.”

Bill raises himself up with his arms, abruptly, his hand shooting out, and for a brief moment Stanford thinks he’s going to be pulled into the water – and he snatches the hem of Stanford’s coat. To stop him from leaving.

“Play chess with me,” Bill says.

Stanford pauses, staring down at Bill, who looks smaller from this angle – his eyes larger, and still glowing, but the mischievous edge gone, and, he realizes with a sudden startled recognition, having seen it in his own reflection plenty of times – he knows loneliness when he sees it. And suddenly, all makes sense.

“Yes,” he stammers out, and then, jerkily and too late, offers his hand. “It’s a deal, I mean – I’ll play with you, and you’ll – well, all the things you said, I can do that –“

Bill releases his coat abruptly, and then sinks into the water, without taking Stanford’s hand, as if he’s as unaccustomed to it as Stanford: and he looks very casual, very smug, as if he’d intended to reveal his end of the bargain, and no more. But there is something that Stanford thinks he’s uncovered – he thinks, maybe Bill wants a _friend_.

The water in the lake ripples around Bill, in ever-widening circles, the still surface disturbed.

“Great!” he says. “Well, now that _that’s_ settled – you wouldn’t happen to have a ham sandwich on ya?” 

Stanford lets out a small, breathless laugh, relieved beyond belief, something heavy lifted off his chest, and digs around in his pocket for a candy bar.

*

Stanford dreams about failing.

He dreams about his house slowly falling apart, like an old cloth ripping at the seams: his books crumbling into dust when he tries to keep them safe, the walls slowly undoing themselves as he scrambles with a hammer and nails. His parents are there, faceless entities because Stanford has slowly started forgetting what they look like, and he knows he can’t let everything fall apart while they watch.

Panic bursts like a dam in his chest when the roof caves in, and then there’s indescribable, bizarre relief when the house is flooded with water, and he thinks, _it’s not my fault anymore_

and he opens his mouth and sings. 

*

“Yer not looking for them right.”

The small rowboat glides through the water, cutting like a hot knife through butter. Stanford sits in the middle while Bill, in the water, circles around him lazily. He reminds Stanford of a shark – very occasionally, he catches a glimpse of the tail, somehow always larger than he remembers, beautiful and grotesque at the same time.

The sun is shining bright. Summer is coming, and Stanford feels alert, eager. He’s been coming to see Bill every day for the past week.

“You need to be more specific,” he says. “I mean, I’ve made maps, of the locations and the frequencies, I’ve spent – hours, in the woods, exploring, or just sitting still and waiting –“

Bill laughs. “See, there’s yer problem, right there! Ya don’t just bump into people like us – “ he pauses, and then adds, begrudgingly, “not that easy, at least. You gotta have the right attitude about it. Ya gotta – “ he pauses. “You gotta have the right mind-set. Ya can’t think like it’s all supposed to make sense. Ya gotta have _instinct_.”

“- ‘instinct’,” Stanford mutters, writing furiously.

Bill looks at him, and suddenly sinks into the water silently, disappearing into the darkness. Stanford lifts his eyes when he hears the splash.

“Bill?”

The lake is still.

Suddenly, the boat sways sharply, Stanford feels something scrape against the bottom of the wood, underwater, and he feels his throat close up with fear, feels the enormous entity of the lake around him like some unknown force, waiting to swallow him, and he grasps the edges of the little boat as it _dips_ –

-and Bill emerges, his strong, webbed hands steadying, dripping water, as the boat stills. He lifts his face so Stanford can see him and grins his widest grin, his eyes wide and unblinking.

“See?” he says. “Instinct.”

“You’re a terrible teacher,” Stanford gasps, his lungs releasing the breath he’d been holding in.

“And how well have ya been doing with your methods? So far? C’mon, a rough estimate.”

Stanford pauses, stares at his hands, still gripping the boat tightly. Droplets of water splash against his skin, and when he lifts his gaze, Bill is looking at him.

“Look at ya. You know I’d never _really_ push ya in, IQ,” Bill says, softer now. “Right?”

Stanford doesn’t know, _obviously_ not, because Bill is a strange and foreign entity, and he doesn’t _understand_ him. He feels like the more time he spends with Bill, the less he knows, like a puzzle that keeps generating new pieces.

He nods, anyway. It feels like a binding contract with the way his heart beats faster, because he doesn’t know but he wants to _believe_ , because trusting Bill feels like closing his eyes and lying down onto the snow.

“How do you teach instinct?” he asks, a little hoarsely. Bill grins.

“Ya don’t. But you _do_ teach where a certain nerd can find himself some unicorns to look at.”

“Oh my god,” and Stanford finally releases the boat, which is as still as if stuck on hard land, anyway, and reaches for his journal.

*

“Oh, you’re back!”

“…”

“Didn’t go so well, huh? Well, that’s unicorns for ya! Bunch of snobs, I tell ya.”

“They said – they – I mean, she said my heart wasn’t _pure_ enough. Pure. Well, ‘said’ – more like shrilled at me, she reminded me of this teacher I had in second grade -”

“Well –“

“What does that even _mean_? How do you – what kind of – where is it even based – it doesn’t make any _sense_! I’m not a – bad person!”

“Easy there, tiger, yer gonna fall off the pier if you keep pacing like –“

“I mean, does she read my _mind_? The heart’s for pumping blood, it can’t-  Is it – is it because I’m a _man_ , because I thought, you know, the legends talked about pure maidens but I figured –“

“Gonna have to try to formulate full sentences, buddy – wait, whaddya mean about –“

“…”

“Ford?”

“…”

“That’s not yer normal shade of red, is it? Is it because yer mad?”

“I was – I was really busy during college. Studying. I studied all the time.”

“What? What was that? I can’t hear ya if you keep mumbling like that!”

“Bill?”

“What is it, Fordsie?”

“Do you – Do I seem like a bad person to you?”

Uproarious laughter, water splashing.

“Bill –“

“Oh – Oh, Stanford, you crack me up.” Warmly. “The end of the pier’s right about there – that’s it, feel with yer hands. Sit down, willya? Look at you. Isn’t this the time for good lil researchers to be in their beds?”

“I know, I was just – I did, I did try to sleep, it was just –“

Stanford can’t see anything, except the glow of Bill’s eyes reflected in the inky water, the pier cold under his touch, but Bill chuckles: and it’s like he’s right next to Stanford, the silky sound vibrating in his ears.

The burning embarrassment still remains, burned into his consciousness, yet to have cooled down – but there is a splash of water against his face, like a kiss, and Bill says, lowly, fondly, in the darkness:

“What am I going to do with ya, Sixer?”

Stanford smiles, helplessly, as the insinuation of ownership sinks in.

*

Three weeks pass by and Stanford stops drinking coffee.

He doesn’t realize it at first – because he used to need coffee, lots of coffee, brewed black with such a small hint of sugar it was more his imagination than anything, every single morning in college to get him through the day. But he shuffles into the kitchen one morning to grab something to eat by the lake, and there’s mould in the bottom of his favourite coffee cup. 

Stanford doesn’t really think about it particularly hard, as he puts on his shoes (finally dry) except that it takes time to brew coffee, and who has time, these days?

Sleep still lingers in the corners of his eyes as he starts through the woods towards the lake. Morning dew lingers, settles in his hair like a crown, and he imagines himself in a morning talk show as a world-renowned scientist – he imagines Bill there, somehow, maybe in a giant vat of water, Stanford can do whatever he wants in his own imagination – and his lips move as he goes through the imaginary banter. For a scientist he’s surprisingly witty – he has the host in stitches, but he’s modest too.

His chest feels light and he grins goofily at a squirrel that bolts up a tree: the sun shines between the leaves, and everything is so beautiful that it sort of hurts.

He imagines Stanley again, the one in the old photo he has, twelve-years-old, and they stomp through the woods together, and he feels, in a way, more whole, even though he’s always been himself, one person. Stanley in his head is in a happy mood too, chattering and pointing at things that Stanford doesn’t usually notice. A ladybug lands on his coat and he feels like it’s a sign, of nothing in particular, but a sign in itself, something meaningful.

“Bill is great,” Stanford tells Stanley. “He just, I mean, the puns are terrible but when he wants to, he can make _sense_ of things, you know? I’ve had all this information, all these little bits and pieces, and he’s helping me to put them together. I’m good at finding things out, but he really understands – he understands how everything works around here, everything just falls into place, it’s beautiful- ”

“Sure, _sure_ ,” Stanley nods, squinting his eyes and pursing his lips, cupping his elbow, as he does when he doesn’t understand, but he wants to make Stanford laugh – and Stanford does.

“He’s a merman,” Stanford says. “I think. I never got a straight answer from him, but you’d love him. He’s got –“

“Wait –“ Stanley interrupts him, his round childish face contorting in a scowl. “A merman? Like from the sea?”

“No, actually, from a lake,” Stanford says, but the word ‘sea’ lingers in the air like a trigger: and Stanley’s twelve and he’s fourteen and he’s seventeen with the last expression Stanford saw on him, angry and betrayed, and Stanford’s remembering too much, all of a sudden, things he doesn’t want to think when the morning is this beautiful. So he doesn’t. He doesn’t.

He lifts his gaze and he’s by the lake: and there’s a ripple in the water, before Bill emerges, gliding through the water like an otter. Stanford feels more awake than he’s ever been with coffee, or tea, or any caffeinated substance.

He doesn’t realize that this is the last time he imagines his conversations with Stanley.

*

Stanford dreams seven consecutive nights, nights that he forgets come morning, that he’s swimming in the lake with Bill: but the lake is never-ending, stretching far beyond what his eye can see – it’s an ocean, and somewhere in the distance he sees a boat, but he doesn’t want to catch it. He’s not tired, nor drowning. Bill’s enormous tail glides underneath him in the water, bigger than a whale, supporting him, and he doesn’t question it.

He wakes up with a taste of salt on his tongue.

*

“Oh my god,” Stanford says as he stares at the chess board. Bill emerges from the water, where he was restlessly swimming, pushing himself gingerly to peer over the edge of the boat without disturbing the pieces.

“I can’t believe this,” Stanford says incredulously, the corners of his mouth tugging helplessly, laughter bubbling in his throat. He looks up from the few remaining pieces on the board and meets Bill’s wide, yellow eyes. “I just _won_.”

“What?” Bill demands and splashes his tail against the water, pushing his wet hair away from his face. “No you didn’t!” He looks at the board. He squints. “What – you won! How’s that even _possible_?”

“Well, generally you move the pieces and try to outthink your opponent –“

“I know what winning is! Because I always win! It’s my thing!” Bill glides onto his back onto the water, his tail splashing in sullen, agitated little jerks. Stanford laughs, the surprise and the triumph taking over him in pleasant waves.

He proceeds to do a little shimmying motion, just with his upper body. Bill stares at him.

“What – what is that? What’re you doing with that?”

“It’s my victory dance,” Stanford says casually, refusing to be embarrassed. He tries to gyrate his hips without upsetting the boat.

“Well – stop it! It looks weird! You’ve got weird- shoulders,” Bill scowls at him, spitefully. “Yer just rubbing it in my face now. You’re a _bad_ winner, Stanford Pines. Yer _ungracious_.”

“You literally jumped like a dolphin that one time, Bill –“ Stanford points out mildly.

“How dare you! Don’t compare me to those _sea hyenas_!”

“Besides,” and Stanford feels his heart do a pleasant little flip-flop at what he’s about to say, “I didn’t do it on _porpoise_.”

There is a silence as Bill processes this, staring at Stanford’s face.

He can’t help it – he starts grinning, wider and wider, until he’s shaking with barely contained triumph. His chest is aching a little: he’s somehow wildly, achingly grateful for this moment.

“That’s it,” Bill says and promptly sinks into the water.

“Oh come _on_!” Stanford calls out, hastily grabbing a hold of the boat because he’s a fast learner. “Bill! You can’t flip over the board, because you’ll flip over the boat and _me_! Bill!”  

He peers into the water – there is always the thrill of knowing Bill is down there, but Stanford hates missing him.

Was that a tail he saw move in the murky water?

Suddenly, Bill bursts through the surface, and spits a surprisingly powerful projectile of water at him.

Sometime later, when Stanford’s recovered his glasses, and Bill has (after some bribery through ham sandwiches) dived to get the remaining pieces from the bottom of the lake, he sits at the bottom of the boat, with his shirt off and laid carefully to dry in the warm spring sun.

He wishes he didn’t have to go back to the house. He wishes Bill could come with him.

He wonders if Bill would want to.

“Do you ever dream about walking on land?” he asks, staring at the cloudless sky, and hopes he’s not being accidentally insensitive.

He can hear Bill circling the boat, lazily, feels the brush of his tail against the sides and he shivers.

Bill is silent for a while, before he answers.

“Y’know,” he says. “Funny that you should _ask_.”

*

Stanford dreams that he has a tail like Bill’s – he dreams about diving into the lake that is blue and vivid and endless, the sunlight breaking through the surface like giant glowing eyes. At the bottom of the lake is his house, and his notes and his books and his equipment float gently around him: but his tail is just sea foam, and the deeper he sinks, the more it dissolves. His human legs kick the water futilely.

The last thing he sees, as he floats upwards, is Bill, peering at him through the attic window.

*

Stanford wakes up covered in cold droplets of dew and his face feels numb. The sky is dark and everything is eerily silent. For a moment he can’t even hear his own heartbeat, and he wonders if he’s still dreaming.

He sits up in the boat. It’s not the first time he’s fallen asleep at the lake, but it’s the first time he’s woken up in the middle of the night. He looks around – the surface of the water is so even it’s like a mirror, so still he wants to touch it, but he doesn’t. Instead he snuffles, and tugs his coat tighter around himself, wonders reluctantly if he should row to the shore and go home. But he doesn’t want to do that without bidding goodbye to Bill, and Bill is nowhere to be seen.

The clouds shift, glide away silently, and the stars come out, but Stanford doesn’t turn his gaze to the sky – instead, he stares at the lake and the countless twinkling lights reflected on its smooth, dark surface, surrounding him, spreading like another sky around him.

Somewhere in the distance, the sound echoing over the water, a bird screeches, and Bill, his eyes glowing in the dark, surfaces, sending ripples along the water. The starry sky is distorted, twisted: Bill remains as the only clear singularity, swimming quietly over to the boat. Stanford doesn’t say anything as Bill reaches out and drags himself along the edge of the boat, and they wait for the water to be still again.

Next morning, when Stanford finally goes back to the house, he calls Fiddleford.

*

The first summer after they’d graduated, Fiddleford had gotten married.

Stanford had been in the wedding – he’d been _part_ of the wedding, standing out like a sore thumb among Fiddleford’s rowdier relatives, the stranger, the bestman, Fiddleford’s friend from college. The tie had felt like a noose around his neck and when she’d walked down the aisle Stanford had just watched Fiddleford’s face and he’d felt like he was someone else, watching this happen, maybe on a TV screen. It had been the first wedding Stanford had attended. Much later on, it had been the first time he’d ever gotten properly drunk.

She’d been nice – lovely, really, just as he’d expected because Fiddleford was a kind, optimistic person and she’d been a kind, optimistic woman with a wide mouth and red nail polish and eyes only for her new husband. Stanford had smiled at all the right parts and he’d shook her hand and noted how she didn’t flinch, and he’d thought, _oh, goddamnit_.

He couldn’t even hate her.

It had been… it had been odd. It had been _strange_. It had been strangely hollow, afterwards, when Stanford had driven all the way to Gravity Falls and walked up to the lake for the first time and cried, just a tiny bit, just because he’d felt like it.

He’d never thought about love and he’d never been sure if that’s what it had been, whether he’d had a _crush_ like some silly, oblivious schoolboy, or whether Fiddleford’s constant presence, over a period of years, suddenly taken from him, had just been a shock he hadn’t anticipated. But as Stanford watches Fiddleford’s car circle into the yard outside the house, and catches a glimpse of his friend – nearly the same, although the shirt is new, more professional – he doesn’t feel anything except a pleasant, anticipatory twist in his stomach, and he almost regrets the fact that Fiddleford is traveling alone.

He goes outside just as Fiddleford is getting out of the car and his friend looks up over the car hoof and lets out a wordless, delighted hoot.

“Hello!” Stanford calls out, laughing. “Thank you for coming so quickly – I’m making dinner for us, later, but if you’re hungry –“

Fiddleford circles around the car and approaches Stanford with a singular, determined, gleeful expression, and then Stanford finds himself enveloped in a startling hug. He’d nearly forgotten what it felt to touch someone _so much_ , how the sensation spreads a pleasant warmth throughout his body.

Fiddleford, a good head shorter, attempts to lift Stanford up: there is a brief tumult as Stanford laughs and drops his glasses, and Fiddleford drops his glasses, and they both spend a moment pawing at the ground looking for them. Just like old times.

“My god!” Fiddleford exclaims, as he adjusts the glasses on his nose. “Either I’m going blind or you’re gotten a lot more _funny-looking_ , Ford!”

“You’re wearing my glasses, _Ford_ ,” Stanford grins. They proceed a good-natured swap of eyewear.

“Well, you look better now,” Fiddleford says, and then squints, observing Stanford. “A little pale, though. Have you been skipping out on meals again? Remember, Stanford, coffee’s not food. It’s a liquid.”

“Soup’s also a liquid.”

“No,” Fiddleford says sternly. “Listen, we’ve been over this, we had the _debate_ , I won, you have to eat foods classified as _food_ –“ 

“I’m fine, really,” Stanford says hastily. “Really, better than fine, actually, I’m-“ he pauses, grinning. “Look, I have a lot to tell you – first of all, about my research, and second of all – I need to introduce you to someone.”

He’d intended to wait after dinner, take Fiddleford for a stroll around the lake – but the excitement bubbles up to the surface, and Stanford has Plans, and he doesn’t even register how they end up walking the familiar path through the forest as he spills everything out – he talks about the strangeness of Gravity Falls and he talks about his first meeting with Bill, he talks about unicorns and he talks about Jeff and the boredom, and he talks about Bill – his tail and his eyes and his stories, and Fiddleford walks next to him like he used to imagine Stanley and looks at him and listens, intently.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Fiddleford says finally, and turns his gaze to the lake. He’s quiet, for a moment, and then adds, like he’s not sure what to say. “I’ll be _damned_.”

“I know it’s a lot to take in,” Stanford takes a deep breath and pulls his hands behind his back. “Listen, I have a lot more notes at home, these are just the bare bones – the basic gist of it, but –“

“And this – Bill person?” Fiddleford says, carefully, eyeing Stanford. “He’s – safe? I mean – “

Something unpleasant clenches in Stanford’s chest when he realizes that Fiddleford isn’t as universally overjoyed as Stanford feels.

“Of course he’s safe. He’s my _friend_ – just like you are.” Stanford hesitates. “Really – I’ve spent countless of hours with him, he’s harmless. He – he likes _sandwiches_.”

“It’s just,” and Fiddleford pauses. “Well – I suppose I just have to meet him, don’t I?” he continues, gamely, but something in his tone makes Stanford uncomfortable. He’s not sure whether he’s being paranoid, reading too much into it because he’s nervous, because sometimes Bill doesn’t make the best first impression – but he wishes Fiddleford would smile with his eyes as well as with his mouth. “Where is the lil feller, anyway? This is the lake he lives in, right?”

“Yes,” Stanford says, a little more curtly, and peers out into the water. Usually Bill shows up, as if summoned, every time Stanford arrives. He hesitates, glances at the boat pushed up to the shore, and then takes off to the pier. “Let’s go wait for him.”

*

The sun sets somewhere behind the trees. There is a tight knot in Stanford’s chest, something stuck in his throat.

For a while there, it had been all right – Stanford had been restless, his gaze wandering, drawn to the water, but Fiddleford had talked about his life after marriage and the pregnancy, and the various projects he was working on in the peace of the suburbs and Stanford had talked about his research, repeated the story about the unicorns, made Fiddleford laugh.

For some reason, Stanford hadn’t been able to continue talking about Bill.

They’d walked along the shore, after a while, when Bill hadn’t shown up by the pier, and Stanford had stood and watched as Fiddleford chatted with few of the fisherman, hardly able to pretend he was listening, participating, when all of that time he’d kept his ears and eyes trained to the water, waiting for a splash, for a call of his name. A fish jumping to the surface had startled him hard enough that the others had turned to stare at him.

Bill hadn’t come.

They walk back to the house in silence. Stanford knows he should say something – he invited Fiddleford here, he’s the host, and he can feel discomfort hovering in the air – but he can’t focus, can’t swallow down the taste of bile and worry, and his palms feel clammy as he rubs his fingers against them.

There are million thoughts battling it out in his head, but his worry that something has happened is all but trumped by a flavour of disappointed, miserable frustration, because _Bill hadn’t even shown up_.

Fiddleford clears his throat and Stanford doesn’t want to hear it, because Fiddleford was supposed to meet Bill and _understand_. He braces himself, prepares to be calm, shoves it all under the surface.

“So,” Fiddleford says. He pauses, and touches Stanford’s arm lightly. “He – he doesn’t always show up, then?”

“No,” Stanford lies hoarsely, feeling hollow. “Not always – I’m sorry, I dragged you out there for no reason.”

He wants to turn and run back to the lake, alone, he wants to take the boat and find Bill and demand for an explanation – if there is any. Fiddleford’s light, warm touch on his arm feels like a constraint, his eyes hot and prickling, and when he realizes this, he turns away, mortified, before Fiddleford can notice.

“Maybe we should go have that dinner,” Fiddleford suggests, his voice seemingly gentle, but for some reason Stanford thinks he’s being mocked, or worse, _pitied_ – that Fiddleford thinks he’s _pathetic_ , strange and pathetic and lonely: he wonders if Fiddleford thinks Bill is imaginary. He realizes, with unpleasant horror, that he has absolutely no evidence to the contrary, that trying to prove it now would just make it seem worse, that on top of everything else, he seems insane now, insisting on wild stories about mermen and whatever else.

“Dinner sounds fine,” he says, and doesn’t look at Fiddleford again as they walk back to the house. He feels like his ears are still trying to hear that familiar splash of water, his heart hammering in his chest.

Fiddleford walks next to him in silence, and it just confirms Stanford’s worst suspicions.

*

“BILL!”

Stanford is absolutely awake, his pulse humming in his ears, the oars splashing angrily against the water as he rows out to the centre of the lake. He’s panting, listening, squinting in the darkness.

He’d tried to sleep, but his whole body had felt like live wire, and he’d laid there in the darkness, downstairs couch while Fiddleford occupied his bed, with his eyes shut, imagining scenarios – most of them ending with Bill apologizing profusely, Bill explaining his absence, Bill making _amends_.

Stanford had racked his brain for excuses to go out the next day and look for Bill alone, but he hadn’t come up with any, so in the end, he’d took his flash-light and snuck out of the house.

“Bill!”

His voice echoes around the lake, startles the birds nesting by the shore, bounces back to him.

_Bill._

_Bill._

_Bill._

And there, in the darkness, two glowing dots – Bill glides silently towards the boat, only the top of his head and his eyes visible. Stanford is simultaneously so relieved that he feels faint, and irritated – all the waiting, during the day, and now Bill approaches him like nothing had went down.

“Where were you?” he demands, shining the flashlight into the water.

Bill lifts his head from the dark water and regards him impassively.

“Oh,” he says. “Y’know. Around.”

“What?” And Stanford cannot believe his ears, cannot believe Bill, and Bill doesn’t even look like he’s sorry – he’s watching Stanford with that inscrutable expression, like a person watching an animal squeak and growl. “Why would you – I called for you!”

“I heard it,” Bill says, infuriatingly calm. “I just didn’t feel like performing for yer little friend.”

“That’s not what it was about!” Stanford snaps. “He’s my – yes, he’s my friend, but so are you and I wanted you two to meet! I thought – Fiddleford could help you, he could help me build something to get you out of that lake! What, suddenly you’re too _good_ for humans?”

“Listen, _champ_ ,” Bill says – and his voice echoes around the lake, sinks somewhere in the back of Stanford’s head, the sensation similar to loud, buzzing white noise. “I toldya – I don’t show myself to _humans_. I made an exception in yer case, but I’m special! And you’re special because I picked you! Now, maybe you had in your head some cutesy idea where we’re all one big happy family, just Bill and the humans, but it ain’t gonna happen!”

Stanford is panting a little, by the time Bill stops talking, his chest constricting in a way that makes it hard to breathe.

“So,” he says, and he doesn’t know what to say: Bill is spot-on, as usual, piercing through Stanford’s stupid day-dreams like he can read minds.

Bill softens a little, swims closer, his voice coaxing. “Listen – by _all means_ , use yer friend if he’s willing to help ya out. By all means! But don’t you want this to be _special_?” Stanford hears the sound of Bill’s wet, webbed hands sliding against the wood of the boat. His voice is like the smoothest, silkiest surface of water. “Don’t ya want it to be- just the two of us?”

Stanford swallows, his eyes itchy, and he feels exhausted – so exhausted he wants to curl and sleep, misery enveloping him, cocooning his heart. He turns the flash-light, shines it against Bill’s cheek, focuses on his face.

“You left me stranded out there,” he says hoarsely. “I thought we were better friends than that.”

And he grasps the oars, starting to row himself back to the shore.

*

Fiddleford knows that something is wrong – he hasn’t mentioned anything, but when he comes down to breakfast, he looks at Stanford’s face, and his shoes drying by the fireplace, and he starts making coffee quietly.

Stanford stares at his own strange hands wrapped around a warm mug and tries to remember what acting normal was like.

He realizes, distantly, that Jeff’s escaped – he wonders how long ago. For the past few weeks, Stanford’s only come to the kitchen to grab food before he heads out. The bars of the tiny cage have been bent to create a hole. It must have taken ages.

A plate of toast is placed in front of him.

“So,” Fiddleford says, and Stanford forces himself to look at his friend’s kind, smiling face.

“So,” he says, listlessly.

“Are we going to the lake again today?” Fiddleford asks carefully. “Only, I’ve been thinking about it – some kind of a submarine, or maybe a mobile fish tank –“

“No,” Stanford says hastily. “We’re not – it’s fine. Don’t – you don’t have to. It’s fine. Forget about it, the, the, what I was talking about, let’s just – it’s fine.”

He’s fine. He really is.

“Oh, um – “ Fiddleford hesitates. “Look, Stanford, I never meant to – I know this stuff is really important to you, and it’s not like I don’t believe something’s out there – it’s more that there’s something about _you_ , something I’m- “

Stanford rubs his cold fingers through his hair, roughly. “I’m fine!” he says, louder than he intended. “Don’t – I’m fine, we just – Bill and I, we had a fight.”

“Bill and you had a fight,” Fiddleford says slowly. “When – when was this fight?”

Stanford’s stomach lurches uncomfortably at Fiddleford’s tone.

“Last night,” he says lowly. “I went out there to talk to him.” He stares at the piece of toast. The idea of actually eating it makes him feel nauseous.

“You – Oh, _Stanford_.”

“Stop it,” Stanford says lowly. “You’re not helping.”

“Everything’s covered in dust, Stanford,” Fiddleford says lowly – a new kind of urgency in his voice. “Everything’s – it looks like you haven’t lived here in _weeks_ , Stanford.”

“That’s because I’ve been _busy_ ,” Stanford grinds out. “You _know_ how I get, we roomed for years. I’ll get a housekeeper if it makes you feel better, but I’m not – losing my marbles, if that’s what you’re implying! Bill is real!”

“I never said he wasn’t!” Fiddleford says, a bit more sharply, slamming his cup onto the table. The sound hits Stanford like a gun shot, shakes him to the core, and he stands up sharply.

“You didn’t _have to_ ,” he rasps out. “I need to – I’ll be back.” And he turns, stalking out of the room.

He wants to go to the lake, he needs to go to the lake, his legs already pulling him to the back door. But he can’t, he can’t, he can’t talk to the only person he wants to talk to, so instead he takes the stairs up to the attic.

*

He comes downstairs when the sun is setting, and finds that Fiddleford has cleaned, and he feels immensely guilty.

“Sorry,” he says hoarsely. Fiddleford looks up from his magazine and eyes him for a moment, where he sits, in the corner of the couch with his legs folded, and then puts his paper away.

“It’s fine,” he says. “I mean – I can’t pretend I know what’s going on. Frankly, it sounds like a lovers’ quarrel to me.”

Strange terror grips Stanford’s heart.

“We’re not –“

“No!” Fiddleford holds out his hand. “You don’t have to – I said it was fine. Look, maybe it’s just – you’re new to this sort of thing. How about you spend a couple of days here, we’ll look at some other stuff you’ve found – I hope you don’t mind, I went through your notes – and you just – take some time for yourself. Give yourself a little breathing room, y’know?”

Stanford stares at Fiddleford, who intertwines his fingers and looks up at Stanford with an expression of fond, gentle exasperation, and for a moment he believes that it’s just that, and nothing else.

“How did you get so – smart about this?” he asks, and sits down slowly. Fiddleford grins and taps his ring finger.

“Marriage, Stanford. But, uh, I’ve always been this smart. I just keep a lid on it, for your sake.” He smirks. “Y’know, all that and _looks_ too. How can you compete?”

Stanford lets out a shaky little laugh. Fiddleford turns on the TV.

The voices of black and white people fill the room, and he tries to pretend he’s fine, that the conversation really helped, that his ears aren’t filled with the sound of water splashing against the sides of the boat.

It almost works.

*

Three days, in the house, and Stanford feels like he’s going insane.

The anger still comes and goes, but he can’t stop wondering whether Bill thinks about him, whether he worries because Stanford hasn’t been to the lake – whether he feels sorry and misses him. A part of him chants, _please please please_ , like a mantra, while he avoids the doors outside, while he sits with Fiddleford and talks and laughs and argues.

By the third day, Stanford’s patience is like a rubber band stretched too far, doubt and yearning and guilt intermingling and struggling for dominance.

He thinks, _I was too angry_.

He thinks, _this is silly_.

He thinks, _I miss him_.

In the end, Stanford doesn’t really think about it – like the first time that he met Bill, he puts on his coat, and walks past Fiddleford, who’s laying out a game of cards on the kitchen table.

“I’m going out for a while,” he mumbles, and the door closes to Fiddleford’s startled, worried wide eyes.

Stanford walks through the forest just as the sun is setting with brisk steps, shoves his hands into his pockets as some warm, triumphant relief fills his chest. He arrives to the lake and pushes the boat into the water, without waiting, jumps in and glides across the still surface, completely at ease.

“Bill!” he calls out. A few lone fishermen turn to look, but Stanford ignores them.

The sun turns the lake pink and orange, the trees into dark silhouettes. Stanford sits in his boat, and waits.

As the sun disappears, gradually, and leaves the sky cold and dark, as Bill keeps himself hidden, he wonders if it’s really possible for someone to be special one moment: and insignificant the next.

*

Stanford dreams that he has no voice – in his dream, he grips a dagger that feels so real that it hurts.

His house is bigger than it normally is, every corridor endless, but he follows the sound of the wordless song as if it ties around his heart and tugs him forward.

He descends down the basement, the basement he’s never even noticed before, and as his hand grips the handle of the door, he looks down, and sees water, leaking from the crack between the floor and the door. The singing gets louder.

Stanford takes a deep breath, holds it in, and opens the door.

*

He wakes up in the boat, the sun boring down on him. He sits up, curls in his coat and shivers even though the wood under his palms is hot to touch. His mouth feels dry, his eyes feel like he’s cried, and his heart feels numb.

Somewhere on the shore, he spots a lonely figure standing and watching him.

Stanford grasps the oars to row further away, before Fiddleford calls out his name.

*

 The smell of the thunderstorm announces its arrival before it even begins to rain. Stanford walks along the beaten path towards the house, his eyes adjusted to the darkness.

Inside his head, the turmoil is worse than the one brewing up in the sky. He’s sorry now – sorrier than he’s ever been in his life – that he didn’t stay, that he didn’t talk with Bill until they found some kind of a common ground. He doesn’t _understand_ what’s happening: how one moment he could have been so happy and the next, because of one mistake, one stupidly calculated moment where his pride took over and he turned his back, he’s somehow lost it all.

_Lost it all._

Stanford wants to throw up. He inhales, a shaky, shuddering breath that catches in his throat, as his house comes into view. Fiddleford’s turned the light on and the windows glow brightly even as the cold wind blows ever harder, tousling Stanford’s hair, but he stands outside for a long while and stares into nothing, before he works up the courage to go inside.

“Hello?” he calls out, his voice hoarser and smaller than he remembers, and shuts the door. The house is light and warm, smells like coffee and food, and Stanford feels like crying.

He wanders into the empty living room, and turns off the TV, which is when he hears the soft murmur of conversation in the kitchen. His heart leaps into his throat.

With his pulse humming loudly in his ears, Stanford walks with quiet, quiet steps, and stops at the doorway.

Fiddleford is sitting at the kitchen table, worrying an old coffee mug between his hands, and he looks up when he sees Stanford, relief written plainly over his face.

“Stanford -!”

Stanford’s eyes are fixed on the other person in the kitchen.

Stanley stands up, after a second’s pause, something gruff and hungry in his eyes as they stare each other – and he’s a stranger, big and unwashed, stubbled and drained. Stanford doesn’t recognize him, except he _does_ , but not in a way he wants.

“Hey, Sixer,” Stanley says, his voice tentative and coaxing, as if he’s trying to lure in some wild animal, and Stanford wonders what Fiddleford has told him. He doesn’t want to know – he doesn’t want to think about it and he doesn’t want this, people who left him, people who had better things to do, standing there _judging_ him and his red-rimmed eyes: fresh, strange anger surfaces in him.

“I didn’t invite you,” he says to Stanley, tightly, and Stanley flinches back like he’s been hit, as if he’s the one suffering here. Somehow the air in the kitchen changes, as if electrified, and he feels like every single vein in his body is screaming, begging for him to do something, his pulse speeding up. Outside, lighting flashes, and thunder cracks, rattling the windows, and Fiddleford speaks over the sound and Stanford can’t hear him, just sees his face with that expression of pained pity.

“He’s not real!” Stanley snaps.

“Stay out of this!” Stanford yells back at him, his voice cracking, the last of his patience washing away, something wild and broken inside him. “Just – _stay out of this_ , Stanley! I didn’t want you here! You don’t know _anything_!”

The thunder booms again, deafening sound, and Stanley opens his mouth just as the lights go off, and Stanford turns and runs.

Rain whips against his face, blinds him, but he doesn’t need to see the path to see where he’s going – the door’s left wide open behind him as he dashes into the dark forest, the howling wind drowning out the voice calling his name behind his back. The lighting makes him flinch, and his chest burns, and he feels like the trees reach out as he runs past them, try and grab him with their prickling branches: the forest creaks and hums, underneath the storm.

Stanford runs to the deserted lake, runs to the pier, calls out for Bill – but his voice doesn’t carry over the thunder, and he runs to the boat that he left to the shore seemingly mere moments ago, stumbles into the shallow water that feels shockingly cold and sets off towards the centre of the lake. The rain pours down like countless sharp needles and the boat quakes and shakes, and Stanford’s hands are numb with cold: he drops the oars into the water.

“ _Bill_!” he screams, his voice hoarse and raw – he just wants everything to be okay, he just wants to feel okay, he wants to touch Bill’s strange hands, twine his wet hair around his fingers, be safe and warm and beloved. A low, wounded animal sound escapes from his throat, and he’s not sure if he’s crying – he’s soaked to the bone, trembling, shaking, swaying over the dark murky wild water in his shabby little boat.

Bill emerges from the waves, his eyes shining like lamps – and the wind settles, the rain ceases beating against Stanford’s back, the clouds evaporating. Stars twinkle unnaturally bright above him, and around him, spreading on the mirror-still surface of the lake.

He chokes down a sob, and he whispers, his voice raw and gone. “Bill.”

Bill swims closer, until he’s right by the boat, gazing up at Stanford, and he’s smiling – a strange, tender smile, his eyes as reflective as the lake. He holds out his hand.

“We never shook on it,” he says, softly. “Will’ya give me what I want, Stanford Pines?”

Stanford stares down at him.

He reaches out, clasping Bill’s hand in his.

Bill laughs, tilts his head back and laughs, a sweet sound that reminds Stanford of something he’s forgotten – and then he holds on, leans back and _pulls_ , and Stanford dips forward, the gravity shifting as he breaks the surface of the water.

He expects darkness, he expects cold, but he feels nothing – and the underwater world is filled with stars, gleaming and bright and so close he feels he can reach out to touch them, like he’s dropped into the sky, into space, and he floats, weightless, as the beauty of it all fills his heart so full he feels like he’s going to burst. Bill is merely a shape, a silhouette of laughing, tender eyes and darkness, his hair floating all around Stanford, and Stanford holds tight onto his hand, holds as hard as he can, so that Bill won’t leave him.

“I love you,” he says, earnest and tentative, but only bubbles escape from his mouth. Bill leans in, anyway, and their mouths meet, cold and soft.

He still thinks it, repeats it with every fibre of his being, as his ears fill with the wordless hum, and Bill’s teeth sink into his neck.

*

They fish Stanford out of the lake around one in the morning, while the rain is slowly settling down around them, and Stanley wants to cry, he wants to scream, he wants to punish himself for always fumbling – always saying the wrong thing, hurting Stanford, over and over again. He’s done it, this time. This is the worst thing he’s ever done.

Fiddleford McGucket, the man Stanley’s never met until today, feels for a pulse and lets out a startled, shaken sound.

“He’s alive,” he says, his voice trembling and incredulous. “God – he’s _alive_ , Stanley.”

Stanley yanks his coat off with trembling cold hands, crouches to the bottom of the boat and covers his brother’s soaked, still body, presses his hands against his chest, touches his jaw, his cheeks, his wet, flat hair.

“Does he need mouth to mouth?” he asks hoarsely. “I don’t – do ya know how to do that, because I never – _please_ , tell me what to do –“

Stanford opens his eyes, and meets Stanley’s, and then coughs out a mouthful of water.

He smiles, weakly.

“Stanley,” he croaks out.

Stanley laughs, shaky and relieved and hysterical and grips Stanford’s shoulders tightly as his vision blurs with tears – and maybe, maybe he thinks he sees a strange flash of gold in Stanford’s eyes, a reflection of himself, but it’s probably only his imagination.

The lake settles around them, calm once more.


End file.
